Can O' Whup-Ass

Ask Aunt Betsy: Islam-a-lama-ding-dong

Hi-dee-ho-dee-diddly-doodly-expi-ala-dosius! My goodness! Has it been ten days since Aunt Betsy shed the light of common sense on your dreadfully hum-drum lives? Heavens, how time flies. Here I sit, lounging over a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats at my darling butterscotch and chartreuse broyhill dinette set, identical to the one Suzanne Pleshette had in that show where she played a lesbian school teacher who gets attacked by crows...what was it called? The title's on the tip of my toungue. Was it the Bob Newhart program? It makes no difference, as I've rarely seen Suzanne Pleshette in anything where I didn't fully expect her to be attacked by crows. In fact if I was a crow looking for someone to attack, Suzanne Pleshette would certainly top the list. But I digress.

May-Day! Aunt Betsy-stan (a Christian theocracy, population moi) is under siege! The neighboring Butt-Rodeo-Repuplic (population 3: sodomites Bruce and Lance and their newly purchased lump of negro hyena lunch) claim to have proof that yours truly kidnapped their tedious Shih-Tzu named Charo and transformed the nasty creature into a batch of delectable Korean dog sausage. It's an outrageous claim! Besides which, I used the last of the yummy sausage in a lovely pot pie I entered in the local grange's annual bake-off. As fortune would have it, Lance and Bruce purchased my honorable mention-winning dish in a silent auction and sent a sample to the FBI for DNA testing. If they dare bring charges of animal cruelty against me, I shall point out to the judge that whisking a negro child from an African mud hut and forcing the poor thing to listen to Ethel Merman day in and day out is also animal cruelty, which surpasses turning a flea bitten lap dog into a savory meat product (a rather worthwhile transformation, if you ask me). Sharing another unfortunate border with Aunt Betsy-stan is the Obama-supporting denizens of Israel-Lite, the socialist Christ-killers in the stucco split level next door. It seems they have sought an injunction against Aunt Betsy because at last week's meeting of Baptist Intervention Tramples Christ-Haters (BITCH) we projected Mel Gibson's masterpiece "How the Jews Killed Jesus" against the side of their house, causing a crowd to gather on their front lawn with folding chairs and bowls of Jiffy-Pop. Some people are so sensitive!

In Yahtzee news, I'm sad to report that the Yahtzee League's grand championship tournament has been postponed yet again. My incorrigible kitty-cat Mr. Sillypants ingested two of the dice, where they remained jack-knifed in his rectum for nearly a week. After emerging contrite from his 30-seconds-in-the-dishwasher punishment, I took the naughty creature to the vet (he's actually an amature dabbler in pro bono invasive procedures on animals, my brother-in-law Fingers Romano). The dice were eventually extracted (although Mr. Sillypants still walks funny). I thought the championship tournament had the all-clear to proceed. Well wouldn't you know it, that fussy Lola Butkus (the Episcopalean divorcee with restless leg syndrome) objected to touching dice that spent four days blocking the bowel movements of a sweet little kitty-cat! Good gravy, it's not like I didn't rinse them off! At any rate, we now have a set of tournament quality Yahtzee dice on back order.

Enough dilly-dallying! Before me sits a mountain of desperate letters, each clamoring for Aunt Betsy's attention. And since that loathsome quintet of profoundly irritating women on "The View" are currently yammering on about that nice negro boy Barack Hussein Bin Laden Muhammad Fatwah Beelzebub Obama's recent vacation in the middle-east, I shall address concerns related to that cute little religion practiced by camel riding Jesus haters who rudely resent America for invading their darling little countries and liberating them from their limbs.

Dear Aunt Betsy: I live in Iran. Last month, on our way back from a camel rodeo, my uncle dragged me behind a sand dune and put his shame hose up my hoo-hoo. Now I have a baby growing in my tummy and I was arrested. During closing arguments at my trial, all my attorney did was spit on me for fifteen minutes. Next week the town is going to bury me up to my neck at throw rocks at my noggin 'til their arms cramp. What am I going to do? Signed: Ucky Painful Stonings! How's It That Cool, Really...Even Ever Killing?

Dear UP SHIT CREEK: When in Rome, do as the Romans do. For instance, if you visited Tuscaloosa, you would be expected to serve roast squirrel at your wedding to your brother. As I understand it, if a woman is going to be raped in Iran, she'd better have three male eye witnesses or she'll be stoned for adultery. It was irresponsible of you to neglect to arrange for said eye witnesses at your rape. From the pictures I've seen there are far too many idle men in Iran as it is, all of whom seem to have nothing better to do than kneel on area rugs and kiss the dirt. I'm sure that amongst them you could have found at least three who'd agree to witness your rape for a modest fee. Unfortunately, unless these three men are related to you, you'd be given 500 lashes for being in the company of strange men. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place! I honestly don't see the appeal of it; all things considered I'd rather be in Tuscaloosa.

Dear Aunt Betsy: My name is Anita Conchita Bonita Fajita Suarez. I live in a casa with my 87 niños on the outskirts of La Puta Gordota, Mexico. In June, while making chalupas, I fell to my knees when I saw the face of The Blessed Virgin in a tortilla. Now, every morning, there's a line of pilgrims outside my puerta, all waiting to pay dos pesos to touch my tacos. Christianity is such a beautiful religion, to let us see virgins in our food! Are there other religions that do this? Does Moses appear in borsht? Adios! Signed, I Don't Ingest Other Tacos Anymore.

Dear IDIOTA: I seem to notice that the Blessed Virgin (worshipped only by you hell-bound Cathy-licks, and only vaguely admired by us rapture-bound Baptists) never seems inclined to appear in normal food. She's never graced a pot roast or a corndog. Always a tortilla. Apparently the woman who conceived Our Savior with a dove thinks outside the bun. Be that as it may, it would appear that Allah (the deity of choice for those who execute homosexuals and declare holy wars against cartoons) has appeared on a piece of beef in Nigeria. Actually, since images of the human form send the hypersensitive beturbaned foks into a snit, Allah wisely wrote his name in Arabic on a piece of cow flesh, unwisely providing the forlorn souls of Nigeria yet another thing to whip them into a lather. We rather think the Hindus take issue with another religion's deity signing his name to the charred flesh of an animal they believe to be God. How would those Muslim folks like it if Shiva appeared, multiple arms akimbo, in a plate of baba ganoush?

Dear Aunt Betsy: My name is Darla-Mae Finsucker and I'm from Tuscaloosa. Me and my Bible Study/Possum Cookin Club got into a big ol' kerfuffle 'bout those A-rab towel head camel negros. I says they just like real people. Tonya-Sue Babcock says they jus' a bunch o damn monkeys hoppin' round with bombs on their chests, slowin' down the lines at the damn airports. I like learnin new stuff bout folks who is different. Don't Jesus tells us to love ever-one ('sept for the faggitz)? Signed, Tried Readin About Stuff Here.

Dear TRASH: What a genteel southern belle you are, Darla-Mae. All you need to know about Muslims is they're indian-givers. In the Koran, in Jonah 10:93 it says "we verily did alot the children of Israel a fixed abode" and now all they can do is bellyache about wanting it back. The Koran also gives handy instructions as to how one may rape another man's wife; all you have to do is kidnap her. The book is a virtual treasure trove of information regarding how women can be raped and subsequently punished for being lewd. But perhaps most entertaining is the following passage: "As for those who disbelieve, garments of fire will be cut out for them; boiling fluid will be poured down on their heads, Whereby that which is in their bellies, and their skins too, will be melted; and for them are hooked rods of iron." In other words, if you're not wearing a burka my dear (and I rather picture you wearing daisy-may cut-offs, crocs and an "I'm with stupid" t-shirt), you can expect your clothes to burst into flame until your skin melts off, whereupon you'll be hung from an iron hook. Have a good day, dear.

Hump Day Perv-a-Palooza: Pervier Than Thou

Greetings, bitches! What a glorious day! As Yahweh continues to punish the Bible belt by sending nasty floods and tornadoes to the square states, we have decided to devote today's posting to the myriad of news items pertaining to our collective hell-bound naughtiness, which has undoubtedly provoked this divine meteorolical chastening. As luck would have it, today's Perv-a-Palooza explores that oft-traveled intersection between sex and religion. So lean back, relax, fondle your beads (be they rosaries or of the anal variety) and enjoy!

• COP A FEEL FOR JESUS: Choir practice at The United Methodist Church in Ocala, FL has been exposed as a lascivious vortex of shame. It seems that one Robin Forbes, masquerading as a vagina-owning alto, was in fact pants-serpent-packing baritone. His clever ruse would have gone unnoticed, had he not repeatedly squeezed the 73-year-old boob of a fellow choir member (presumably to adjust her wayward pitch during "Shall We Gather at the River"). Once it was revealed that a transvestite was packing something extra beneath a choir robe, other choir members began stepping forward, exposing Forbes as a serial boob-squeezer who preys on the low-slung ta-tas of devout wrinkled old biddies.
• ASS-SEX 101: In the sophisticated metropolis of Herriman Utah, some parents got some sand up their Moroni's because a Health Education teacher at a local middle school answered questions about sex posed by her curious students. Apparently, when a student asks about certain subjects (homosexuality, oral sex, masturbation, etc.), the teacher was supposed to grimmace and say "we don't talk about that satanic nastiness here. Now go home and pray that Jesus doesn't make your hoo-hoo fall off." Instead, the parents of Herriman's teens have been robbed of their right to teach their kids all about oral sex at home. Because as every Latter Day Saint knows, the book of Mormon tells us that if God finds a family to be slightly icky, he'll make the children explode and then rape their sad mommies (in that order, one assumes). Because God is all about family values.
• DEADER THAN THOU: Israel Gutman, Holocaust scholar with a black belt in kvetching, has a yarmulke up his butt about the recently dedicated memorial in Berlin which commemorates the Nazi slaughter of homos. Apparently, by the time the allied forces switched off the ovens of Auschwitz, the corpses labeled with the Star of David were deader than the corpses emblazoned with a pink triangle. We find a certain perverse irony at work here; Mr. Gutman is a very vocal opponent of anything with the faintest whiff of holocaust denial, yet he himself is engaging in the very thing he most reviles. What a f*g.
• POLE DANCING FOR JESUS: Two Christian women in the latter day Gomorrah known as Auburndale, Florida have opened a pole-dancing class for the devout housewife who periodically enjoys skipping Bible study so she can put on a pair of clear stilettos and learn the art of humping a pole with a g-string full of ones. Finally, every husband-honoring baby incubator who's ever dared dream of one day dangling upside down whilst clamping a pole betwixt her thighs can do so without breaking a commandment. While no men are allowed, and these are ostensibly fitness classes (as opposed to a day at the office), some rude killjoys are suggesting that Christian pole dancing makes Jesus sad. We rather think He finds it hilarious. RELATED: Also in Florida, folks got upset at the traditional Marathon Christmas Boat Parade (what says "Christmas" more than a boat parade in the Florida Keys?), when a woman dressed as an angel rudely executed a pole dance on the mast of a boat. One inflamed resident is trying to make it a felony to pole dance at any function celebrating the birth of Our Lord. Because the Keys must remain a bastian of Christian values.

Family Fun Time With Beverly LaHaye

Dear fellow brothers and sisters in Jesus Christ:

Good morning! Doesn't it seem as if all those rude news people can talk about is earthquakes and Hillary Clinton and cyclones and homosexuals? Wouldn't you like some good news for a change? I thought so. That is why I, Beverly LaHaye (founder of Concerned Women for America, denture-wearer) have taken a break from hurling dead fetuses at those harlots traipsing in and out of Planned Parenthood to bring you a smattering of Godly, family-focused news that the homosexual Jewish conspiracy doesn't want you to hear. Glory!

• DOOMSDAY AVERTED: Back in November, apparently in reaction to the fact that Jesus' favorite nation appears likely to be led by either an uppity negro or a crabby lesbian, a Russkie by the name of Father Pyotr (honestly, why can't these foreigners talk American like Jesus?) convinced three dozen folks that the world was about to end. So they all dug a tunnel into the dirt and sat there to wait. This is patently un-Christian, as sitting in a mass grave is hardly the sort of P.R. Jesus prefers. Besides, us righteous folks will be yanked skyward into the swarthy bosom of God when The End of Times commences. I don't recommend waiting in a cave. I've personally had break-away ceilings installed in my house in case The Rapture occurs whilst I'm at home reading the Bible or painting fresh "Die Fags Die" posters. Long story short, after a few cave-ins and deaths, they have finally re-emerged, begrudgingly admitting that Judgement Day isn't quite as imminent as they had hoped. Life is full of disappointments, isn't it? Praise!
• GETTING ALL "OLD TESTAMENT" ON YOUR FANNIES: Whilst enjoying a lovely father-son camping trip in Colorado, Jack Berry told his son Jeremiah that God told him that he had to be a good son and get a sex change so that his Daddy could marry him. To prove his point, he followed God's instructions by not sparing the rod, and did that thing to his son's fanny that makes the baby Jesus barf. His son, apparently possessed by beelzebub, rudely broke that "honor thy father" commandment by acting stabby with him (presumably on his own, without the benefit of divine instructions), after which he fed his daddy's noggin to a coyote. Now, as the Bible teaches us, sometimes God tells us to do stuff we don't like, such as being nice to people or caring about the poor. A true Christian would have just  gritted his teeth and taken one up his Leviticus hole while thinking of his favorite psalm. Elsewhere in Colorado, the time has come again for the Daddy-Girl chastity sock-hop, wherein Christian men get married to their daughters, who pledge never to let a boy near their filthy bits. While this does sound a little bit incestuous, remember the Bible has no problem with a little wholesome family fun. This is particularly true in the Old Testament (the Jewishest of the Testaments, by the by), where families used to amuse themselves in the oddest ways (remember, this was before Scattergories). As long as there's no homo shenanigans in the mix, God is fine with it. Glory!
• YOUR HELL-BOUND CHILDREN: Although Jesus hates it when a woman lets one of satan's doctors hoover a womb booger from her sin hole, he has very little objection to killing them once they've popped out. In fact, the Bible is chock full of baby slaughter. Why? Because children are sassy. Take for instance the story of a 7-year-old from the phallic (and therefore hell-bound) state of Florida, who beat up his grandmother in the middle of a Wal-Mart for refusing to buy him chicken wings. Although I can sympathize (those Wal-Mart wings are to DIE for), it's hardly acceptable behavior. One does not punch out gam-gam in public! How refreshing, then, to hear of a Godly family of Nigerian negros who wisely pre-emptively addressed sassy child syndrome by cutting out their childrens' tongues and safety pinning their yaps shut. It reminds me of the godly Mrs. Lynne Paddock of North Carolina who, following the instructions she found on Michael and Debi Pearl's Jesus-tastic parenting advice site www.nogreaterjoy.com, beat her tantrum-prone four-year-old to death with plumbing supplies. Of course the Nigerian negros and Mrs. Paddock are currently violating Deuteronomy with crack dealers in maximum security. That's what happens when one removes the Ten Commandments from the courthouse. Praise!
• REPUBLICAN KNEE-SLAPPERS: Although Mary unwisely chose to ride a donkey into Bethlehem rather than an elephant (much less an armored Humvee; they were in the volatile Middle East, after all), it has been long established that Jesus is a red-blooded, fig tree cursing Republican. In spite of the fact that the Son of God had inconvenient things to say about healing the sick and the meek inheriting things, any student of the Bible knows he's really on the side of corporate interests, tax shelters, and pre-emptive war. Unfortunately, somehow the GOP has gained a reputation as a grim cabal of humorless good-ol-boy stick-in-the-muds. Why, when our Republican politicians aren't ministering to randy salesmen in airport mens rooms or fellating lobbyists, they're truly a bunch of cut-ups. For instance, over the weekend, John "Keating 5" McCain took a break from honoring his pill-popping beer heiress wife by calling her a c*nt and appeared on that show the youngsters are talking about, Saturday Night Live. After reading some hilarious cue cards (and, unfortch, singing Streisand), polls show that young voters found him slightly less cadaver-like and creepy. Just two days earlier, Mike "Sheckie" Hukabee cracked a side-splitting off-the-cuff joke about a certain uppity negro candidate being assassinated. Heavens! I laughed so hard I spit a mouthful of half-masticated malomars across the room! Glory!

Coffee, Tea or Satan? An AFA Action Alert

Headcheese, AR -- Homos, homos, homos. That's what's on the mind of the AFA (the American Family Association), an organization dedicated to the preservation of the family. As such, all the poor dears can think about is ass-sex and the hell-bound homos who practice it. In order to keep homos on their minds, they publish a constant stream of "Action Alerts" wherein they place well-aimed fatwahs on pernicious instruments of beelzebub such as Disney World, McDonalds, and the Girl Scouts (a Sears boycott failed when members found it difficult to find reasonably priced polyester stretch pants elsewhere). Of course, they're only thinking of the children. Protecting their retarded uterus spew from the subliminal pansy indoctrination of Jiminy Cricket (don't get them started on Daisy Duck, satan's ambassador for transvestitism), they instead wish to instill the pro-family values of the Bible, a book which advocates stoning sassy younguns, offering their asses to sex-crazed rapists, dashing their noggins against rocks, and getting stabby with them if the voices in your head tell you to.

A typical "Action Alert" instructs its membership to cut n' paste a letter of generic outrage into an email to their legislative representatives. And, lemming-like, they comply. Well, we here at COWA thought it might be cute to put out our own AFA Action Alert.

Cut n' paste the following and email it to your representative and the FAA.

Dear (insert name of elected official):

My name is (your name here), and I'm a decent Christian from (your town, state). Yesterday I was at the Piggly Wiggly shopping for weenies for my church's upcoming Dad-n-Lad Baptist Sleepover and Crafts Retreat, when I encountered two grown men pushing a single cart in the fresh pasta aisle. I was so disgusted by their flagrant assault on my traditional family that I dropped my weenies and sped home to notify the American Family Association. When I got on my computer's interweb and typed in "AFA," I found myself on a site so disgusting in its un-natural advocacy of all things sodomite, I had to dash out to the garage and vacuum my Dodge Caravan. The site in question? The Association for Flight Attendants. I'm sure I needn't tell you that "flight attendant" is homo-speak for "helium-heeled, airborne ass-spelunker." Why, last time I boarded a plane (my husband and I were headed to Fort Lauderdale to visit our son Chad and his roommate Lance), we were startled by an effeminate male stewardess who flounced up to us and lisped "nuts?" before limply tossing a bag of planter's salted almonds in my husband's crotch (honestly, was he trying to give us AIDS?). It spoiled our entire flight. All I could think about was what if The Lord decided mid-flight to call me home to Jesus (and the rest of the passengers, by default, dispatched to Lucifer's bosom in the fiery pit of Hell), and the Boeing hit the ground in a cartwheeling ball of flames? How would Satan know from the tangled mass of charred limbs which belonged to a Leviticus-defying trolley dolly and which did not? I certainly do not wish my limbs, charred or not, co-mingling with those of a poppers-crazed Ida Lupino fan. And make no mistake about it; the co-mingling of limbs is high on the homosexual agenda, right after child molesting and throw pillow awareness. Furthermore, I should like to lodge a complaint because as the plane was making its descent the pilot drew our attention to a glorious rainbow off the starboard side of the craft. I'm sure you're aware that the rainbow is the official homosexual symbol of the ass-wranger's buttsex rodeo. By calling our attention to it, the pilot rudely flooded our Christian minds with images of swarthy he-men riding each other like broncos, their muscular buttocks glistening in sweat as they undulate in a feverish haze of lust amid a chorus of gutteral grunts while Edie Gorme plays on the hi-fi.

Yours in Christ,
(Your name here)

Eavesdropper: Prayer Force One

WASHINGTON -- Taking a break from his whirlwind pope-a-palooza tour (in between his "awesome speech" on the south lawn and his unforseen and eye-brow-raising stint as Roxy Hart in Broadway's "Chicago"), His Popitude enjoyed a photo-op spiritual communion in the Oval Office with POTUS and Pickles (who rudely appeared wearing the same dress as His Holyship).

Luckily, due to a discretely placed bug (in a nearby bowl of plastic pansies), our unsavory band of moles was able to record the threesome's prayer time.

POTUS: Are those camera fellers getting this?
PICKLES: Ha-ha. I caught you peeking, Georgie. Cheater!
POPE: Vot is vit zis piece of paper?
POTUS: That there's the prayer deal my speech writers whipped up for you to say.
POPE: Dis is unacceptable. I don't be your pope-et on der string. Ich bin ein Pope!
PICKLES: Are you a ghost?
POTUS: Be a sport, Popester. It's a damn good prayer. It even rhymes!
POPE: Nein! Achtung!
POTUS: For reals, man! I like how it rhymes "whores shun" with "abortion." That's freaking GENIUS!
PICKLES: I saw that dress in the plus-size nighties section at Dress Barn, but it made me look "hippy."
POPE: Achtung! Der Pope does not do da dress shoppink at der Dress Barn! Nein! Der Pope go to da Lane Bryant!
POTUS: Shoot, don't go getting yer beanie in a twist, Pope-miester. Pickles don't know what she say after 11 a.m. or her third Xanatini, whichever comes first.
PICKLES: I had a dream that you me and the Easter Bunny rode unicorns to Europe! But then I woke up in the Rose Garden and Barney was licking my oopsie hole. Is that bad?
POPE: Achtung! Ketzer! Verlangsamte Schlampe! Achtung!!
POTUS: Listen, Pope-dude. Be a bro and read the damn prayer thingy so's the camera jockeys can get 'er done. I can feel that creepy portrait of my Momma just a-starin down my neck and it's makin me gotta pee.

 

Bitterer Than Thou (or, Why Obama was Right)

BLACK LUNG, PA -- In 1988, odds-maker Jimmy the Greek was approached by a reporter in a restaurant and asked why he supposed negroes have athletic prowess. A racist question, to be sure (and not entirely accurate; we have a hard time picturing Star Jones clearing the lowest of hurdles without chafing her stomach staples on the crossbar), but one to which JTG responded by tracing it back to the antebellum, saying that slave owners would "breed his big black man to his big black woman so that he could have a big black kid." Of course that's true, but no one wanted to hear it. He was quickly crucified and dispatched.

We prefer not to be told true things if they annoy us. So when Barack Obama suggested that John and Mary Lunchmeat from Headcheese Arkansas are "bitter" and therefore cling to their guns, bibles, flags and bigotry "as a way to explain their frustrations," Mr. and Mrs. Lunchmeat took exception, as did every pundit (and one "bitter" political rival) devoted to scanning Obama's armor for a chink. But the thing is, in spite of the fact that he's since been forced into that tiresome "I misspoke" tapdance, he's right.

Simmer down, now. We hail from a small town and know whereof we speak. We know quite well what would happen if one were to, say, stage a gay pride parade in Pocatello, Idaho. Or a gun control rally in Wetonka, South Dakota. The outcome would resemble the climax of Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery," and if you don't believe us we dare you to drive through Tuttle, Oklahoma with a "Praise Allah" bumper sticker on your Volvo. If that makes us "elitist" so be it. "Elitist" is Republican for urban, cultured and educated; we'll wear that banner proudly and we've been called worse.

But don't take the blathering of an elitist refugee from Bitterville, just consider the following tidbits culled from smalltown USA:

• Totally unbitter blogger by the name of Texas Fred offers his sophisticated musings on the topic of immigration:  "You Mexican asshats had better be glad I’m not the POTUS, the Rio Grande would be renamed, Río De la Sangre, Mexican sangre" ("sangre" is Spanish for blood). That's tame compared with the hateful comments the post has garnered (one charmer suggests pushing all Mexicans out of planes over Mexico City). Not that there are bitter xenophobes in Texas or anything.
• Six white trash hillbillies from rural West Virginia (including a mother/son team and a mother/daughter team) recently kidnapped a young black woman and imprisoned her at their trailer, where they stabbed her, made her eat rat poop, sexually assaulted her and punched her around for a few days. The totally not bitter ring-leader, the demure and classy Karen "two-teeth" Burton, told the victim as she stabbed her "this is what we do to n****** down here"
• In Indian River Delaware, when a Jewish family sued the public schools for saying things like "Jesus is the only way" at commencement ceremonies, in a spectacular display of Christ-like values, the townsfolk sent the family anonymous death threats that terrorized them to the point where they had to move. Not that running godless Jews out of town on a rail is the behavior of folks who "cling to religion" as an excuse to hate. We're just sayin.
• In Worcester Massachusetts, Roger West, his daughter Penny and his son Roger Jr. are charged with a hate crime because they burst into the apartment of one of their tenants roughed up him and his boyfriend and trashed the place, all while hurling homophobic epithets. Nothing like playing an old-fashioned, down-home family game of smear the queer, right?
• One day in the dazzling metropolis that is Blaine Minnesota, some nice young men expressed their lack of bitterness by walking into a convenience store owned by Mohammed Ismail and hurling molotov cocktails hither and yon whilst shouting rude expletives about Arabs. The store was destroyed and Ismail barely escaped with his life. So the police searched Mr. Ismail's house, made him take a lie detector test (illegal, but he passed it anyway), but haven't made any arrests and are generally dragging their feet. The store was his only means of income, and the insurance company won't pay the claim until the not-so-forthcoming police report is filed. 
• In bitterness-free Oxnard California, a 15-year-old student by the name of Larry King was sitting in the computer lab at E.O. Green Junior High when another student walked into the classroom, put a gun to his head and blew his brains out. Larry, a resident of a local shelter for abused and neglected children, had recently come out of the closet. Hmmm, why would a child grab a gun when confronted with someone different?
• In opposing a hate-crime bill, the fear monger for small-town America known as The Traditional Values Coalition released the following statement: "this legislation strikes at the heart of free speech and freedom of religious expression." This in no way is indicative of the mindset of folks who cling to the Bible to rationalize their hate. Lynching and gay-bashing are expressions of their religious beliefs, not their bitterness. Right?

Of course not everyone living in a small town is a flag-waving, bible-thumping bigot. But small towns sure as hell are where they grow 'em. Why? Because the residents of Cowpie Oklahoma rarely have to endure the horror of interacting with folks who are different. Their sky is bigger but their universe is smaller. They cling to bibles, guns and the flag because they're the closest things to grab when faced with a threat. It's how it's done there and a life lived by a  paradigm that strays from the straight and narrow (minded) is anti-American by default. The thing is, we defend Mr. and Mrs. Lunchmeat's right to live their lives as they please. Asking them to return the favor is precisely what makes us "elitist" in their eyes.

Not that we're bitter, or anything.

Ask Aunt Betsy: Pope Prattle

Howdy-dowdy-doodle-all-day!! Jiminy Cricket, but it's been far too long since your Aunt Betsy sorted through the many letters stacked precariously on my House Beautiful faux provincial credenza with factory-applied pastoral tableau decals. A plethora of forces, some of which I'll expound upon, has distracted your favorite advice-giver from that which she adores; namely pointing out your many shortcomings and providing a beacon of hope to those who, in all honesty, haven't the whisper of a prayer. Job-like, Aunt Betsy has found herself sorely tested by Yahweh of late. Specifically, I've been targeted by the slings and arrows of litigious calamity from all sides.

First, the neighborhood association has rudely instigated a movement to forcefully remove those charming lawn jockeys that flank the approach to Aunt-Betsy-Stan (a Christian theocracy wedged between the Commie Jew Emirates and The Republic of Fanny Spelunkers). As loyal readers will recall, my duet of negroid garden ornaments (named Mr. Bones and Sambo) incurred some damage during a recent tornado (Sambo's toothy, grinning noggin was separated from his squat, lantern-raising torso, bless his heart), so in a fit of can-do ingenuity I re-fastened his nappy cranium to his neck with a generous dollop of gorilla glue and a rope, the end of which I cleverly tossed over the limb of a nearby oak to prevent it from toppling in a sudden seasonal gust. Apparently, there are those who viewed the resulting street-front display as somehow offensive. Secondly, Aunt Betsy was rudely served a summons related to a simple misunderstanding that occurred when the folks from PETA paid me a visit last week. At the behest of Lance and Bruce (the homosexuals next door whose contemptuous display of a rainbow flag has led to the onset of multiple migraines) the malodorous poncho-clad animal-huggers showed up unannounced during the spirited elimination round of my weekly Yahtzee league. Well, when they admitted they were investigating rumors that I was waterboarding my cat Mr. Sillypants I saw red. It's an outrageous claim; when Mr. Sillypants sasses or acts uppity he gets a few tumbles in my Maytag clothes dryer, nothing more...and he always emerges contrite and downy-fresh. I reacted by offering them some leftover dog sausage (made with the remains of Bruce and Lance's insufferable Shih-Tsu Charo) and assuring them it was vegan. Little did I know the fat one had a severe intolerance for pooch flesh. Those are but two examples of Aunt Betsy's legal woes; I haven't the energy to go into the unwelcome news that the local sheriff announced his intention to re-open his investigation into the unfortunate death of my dear, late husband Cecil (who expired during an unfortunate bath-time incident involving a croquet mallet and a cuisinart set to "grind").

But let's leave this nastiness behind. As we all know, erstwhile Nazi youth and current silk draped pontiff, Pope Eggs Benedict Arnold, is planning a whirlwind pope-mobile tour of our Christian nation this week. Therefore, in a spasm of inestimable religious tolerance, I've decided to throw caution to the wind and address the concerns of Mary-worshiping Cathy-licks.

Dear Aunt Betsy: Top o' the mornin' to ye! My name is Mary Beatrice O'Mally McGill and I live in South Boston with me darlin husband Paddy and our 42 lovely children (and twins on the way, praise be to Jesus Mary and Joseph). While I was in the kitchen whipping up a batch of corned beef and potatoes, Paddy (deep in his cups) came up on me from behind and forced his wee donny doblin in me out door. I'm not one to complain (and even told my little Danny boy to close his eyes and recite his favorite limerick next time Father O'Leary's leprechaun nudges against his Leviticus zone). But now, with the pontiff due to arrive, I feel soiled and unfit to lay me eyes on the Pope's gold brocaded dress. I had me heart set on seeing the old geezer, and perhaps getting a blessing. Should I stay away? Signed, Can A Bonny Babe Approach Great Eminence?

Dear CABBAGE: What a wretched soul you are. Without a doubt, you should stay far away from that effeminate be-gowned codger (who, from the confines of his motorized plexiglass cocoon is unlikely to notice your absence). Remember, although His Popiosity's membership in the Nazi Youth party has long ago expired, the sight of a tedious Cathy-lick woman and her be-freckled brood of snotty children is likely to set him off.  If I were you I'd promptly dress the issue of your hyperproductive uterus in recycled curtains and high-tail it across the Alps. Encourage your inebriated husband to yodel en route, perhaps a miscarriage-inducing, family-erasing avalanche is in the cards.

Dear Aunt Betsy: My name is Fern Abramowitz. My life partner Pearl has convinced the members of our wiccan goddess circle to synchronize our menstrual periods and attend the pompous display of patriarchal oppression known as the Pope's American Tour. After chanting in my Gaya shrine (which doubles as our mud room), I agreed. The plan is to hire a vegan baby companion for our precious adopted Cambodian triplets (Kelp, Vulva and Ling-Ling) and leap in front of the papal procession, where we'll spontaneously mime a topless lesbian re-interpretation of The Trojan Woman while Pearl throws condoms filled with menstrual blood at the Pope-mobile and simultaneously shouts excerpts from the German translation The Vagina Monologues through a megaphone. Care to join us? Signed, Let's Emasculate Sacrilegious Benedict On Sunday

Dear LESBOS: Why thank you, I'd love to join your satanic cult. While we're at it we can vomit into the baby Jesus' manger. Might I suggest we each prelube our rectums with a can of no-stick Pam, to facilitate being sodomized for eternity by Beelzebub in a lake of fire? I also think it wise to devise a "plan b," in case frogs start raining from the sky and a ten-headed horned beast emerges from the Hudson River.

Dear Aunt Betsy: Last night my ex came by with a buttload of Taco Bell. I was eating a Gordita Supreme when I noticed the ghostly image of Jesus in the tortilla of the exact same Chalupa my baby-daddy was fixin to chomp into. I screamed at him "Dang! Don't go a-chompin on the Lord!" and that's when Chalupa Jesus said "suffer the children, suffer the children" and I got all a-scairt and dropped my babies on their noggins. Just then the meth kicked in and I dreamt I was riding unicorns in England and a leprechaun appeared and said "Cheerio, pet! The Queen wants you to be British now, what-what!!" Then I woke up with my dress over my head and I thought it was night time. I asked my baby sister what the dream means but ever since she done got knocked up all's she can do is smoke and cuss and bitch about her hemorrhoids. Should I axe the Pope? Signed Seems Like Unusual Tortillas Today, Y'all!

Hi, Britney. Thanks for the migraine.

Throwing the First Stone: Sodom n' Gomorrah Fun Facts!!

To the hell-bound heathens among you (yeah, you), the story of how Sodom and Gomorrah (Hebrew for "fire-pit" and "Ash-heap," respectively) became Baptist for "ass-sex," here's the short version: God told Abraham of his intent to torch 5 towns (conveniently located in the same valley) unless 10 or more righteous folks were discovered to be living in Sodom. Alas, they only found four: Lot, his wife, and his two betrothed virgin daughters (who later blossom into superfreaks). Sodom, as it turns out, was full of sodomites; they rudely demanded the pleasure of ass-raping two angels who were crashing in Lot's crib (and who were apparently quite hunk-a-licious). A paragon of virtue, Lot offers his virgin daughters to appease the lust-crazed crowd, who concluded that the two girl's asses were patently untappable. Long story short, Lot flees the city with his daughters (his wife took an ill-advised gander at the fireball and was transformed into a cylinder of iodized Morton's). Later, in a cave, Lot's virtuous daughters got him drunk (thankfully, they remembered the hooch as they fled the inferno) and took turns sitting on their father's pee-pee. Each got preggers and plopped out two inbred womb boogers. Thus endeth another Old Testament parable about virtue. But now some scientists believe they've decoded some ancient writing that describes an eye witness account of what really happened. God threw a big rock at us. With that in mind, let us consider the following:

1. How could there be an eye witness account, when witnessing it apparently made one undergo a bizarre transformation into a common table condiment?
2. In Matthew 10:14, Jesus says the real sin of Sodom is that they were rude hosts. This is immediately suspect, as we know sodomites throw the best parties. J-Naz mentions no objection to the fact that every man woman and child in the city was suddenly overcome with a desire to do the horizontal butt bolero with a heavenly messenger. Regardless, if an indecent proposition led to the incineration of 386,000 square miles in the Otz Valley, how did the subsequent daddy/daughter three-way escape punishment?
3. If the residents of Sodom were gay, one ponders how children could have been scampering about. Even then, how to we explain the fact that Lot's daughters were engaged to two local boys? Were they fag-hags? Beards? Should we ask Katie Holmes?
4. According to NASA'S Near Earth Object Program, approximately 330 extinction-threatening asteroids are currently hurtling about hither and thither in our immediate environs. God certainly seems to be well-stocked in ammo. But in today's news, a Kansas man was arrested for raping a picnic table, snapshots surfaced of British race car driver being spanked by dominatrices in a Nazi-themed orgy, a San Diego politician was busted for wanking it off in public, and Britney Spears has threatened to pursue a career in television. What exactly is the Yahweh waiting for? At the very least, why the continued existence of Tuscaloosa?
5. Hurricane Katrina, sent by God (according to McCain supporter John Hagee) as punishment for a recent gay event and destroyed every ward in the New Orleans except for the gay one, plainly demonstrates that God's aim ain't what it used to be. With that in mind, if one lives in Vegas proper, we rather think you're safe. If, however, you're living in neighboring Henderson...well...you're toast.

Sally Kern's Weekend "To-Do" List!

OKLAHOMO CITY -- Sally Kern, the most widely admired woman since Witchiepoo from H.R. Pufnstuf, is a busy lady. What with representing the most bigoted and backward district in "the Sooner State" (a dubious distinction, akin to being crowned the most insufferable Osmond or the most retarded Baptist), unleashing breathless diatribes against butt-spelunking fairies, maintaining her personal relationship with The Lord, dodging questions about her effeminate son and sponsoring legislation to legalize the deportation of shifty, brown-skinned good-fer-nuthins, this tw*t has a full docket. To prove the point, one of our felonious underground moles has retrieved a rough draft of her "Weekend To-Do List" from her garbage, stuck to a copy of "The Watchtower" by an errant dribble of Dentu-creme.

1. Pack a Rapture "go-bag" (include Wetnaps, Tic-Tacs, Dramamine, communion wafters, dress shields and a copy of "So Your Loved Ones Were Left Behind for the Tribulation: A Post-Ascension Prayer Book")
2. Flapjacks and ham breakfast with Christians Unequivocably Need Tradition (or, C*NT) in the Dale Evans event room at the Highway 42 Stuckey's (note to self: wear elastic waisted stretch pants)
3. Photo op with Log Cabin Rebublicans (note to self: bring pepper spray, wetnaps)
4. Toss a molotav cocktail through the front door of that ghastly mosque across from the Shop n' Save to protest Islam as a violent religion
5. Join the 24-hour "Please Jesus Don't Let McCain's Decrepit Ticker Fart to a Stop Before November" prayer circle
6. Convince proprietor of local shooting range to use Obama- and Hillary-shaped targets
7. Bloody Fetus Hurl-a-Thon at the Tuttle Planned Parenthood
8. Guest Judge at the 35th Annual Muskogee Cow Pie Flinging Contest (note to self: bring sensible shoes, rain bonnet, can of Carpet Fresh and/or Fabreeze)
9. Mail monthly "Keep it in your pants and shut your yap" allowance to nancy-boy son
10. Weekly meeting with "Operation Save Our Families" to discuss the best way to wrestle children out of their homes if their parents have similar plumbing in their shame zones.
11. Kneel on rice and beg Jesus to forgive me for the sinful thoughts I keep having about spreading Condoleeza Rice's shapely ebony thighs and dining at the banquet of her nubian hair pie
12. Shopping spree with Beverly LaHaye at Dress Barn, Lane Bryant, and Let Us Spray (the new Christian hair salon wedged betwixt the Jiffy Lube and the Shangri-La Lanes Bowling Alley)

Easter Greetings From Pickles, the Easter Bunny and the Pope!

VATICAN CITY -- As Easter approaches, and millions of folks worldwide make preparations to mark the resurrection of The Lord by hiding unfertilized gaudily-festooned chicken embryos and devouring pig flesh, Laura "Pickles" Bush, the Easter Bunny and Pope Benedict would like to extend their cruci-tastic Easter wishes to you and yours!

LAURA BUSH: Hello from the Pope's house! I must say that you Cathy-licks sure know how to decorate! I wish I could have your decorator come to Crawford. Georgie insists on nailing talking fish plaques to the wall in every room. Do you have a talking fish plaque in your house?
POPE BENEDICT: No, but speaking of nailing things, Happy Easter!
EASTER BUNNY: Make that a hippity-hoppity Happy Easter!
LB: When I see imaginary talking animals, it's usually after one or four xanatinis.
EB: I'm not imaginary.
LB: I wasn't talking to you silly.
PB: I'm not imaginary either. Nor am I an animal.
LB: That's what you all say!
PB: I'm quite real. If I told the members of our communion to poop their pants, there'd be a run on pampers in Guadalajara faster than you can say "kyrie eleison."
LB: You talk funny. Are you magic?
EB: Oh, yes! I'm full of hippity hoppity magic!
LB: I wasn't talking to you, silly.
PB: Yes. Yes I'm magic. If folks make me cross I put on my pointy pope hat and zap them with my pope ray and they turn into a cane toad.
LB: Well I do like your dress. Did you get it at Dress Barn?
PB: Thank you. It's silk.
LB: I wasn't talking to you, silly.
EB: I'm not wearing a dress. This is fur.
LB: Poppy-cock. Last Easter George gave me a rabbit fur stole but Barney buried it in the Rose Garden.
PB: Perhaps we should talk about Jesus Christ.
EB: Yippee!
LB: Jesus is depressing. I know whereof I talk, I saw Mel Gibson's movie. Why would we talk about Jesus? It's Easter!
EB: Yippee! 
PB: We talk about Jesus because on this day, lo many years ago, Jesus saved our soul by being executed by the Romans.
LB: Romans are so scary. The women wear mustaches and the men are always touching their pee-pees.
EB: Yippee!
LB: Besides, if Jesus saved my soul by being executed, Texas is saving souls by the gazillions! Seems like a nary a day goes by where Texas isn't jabbing some dirt-nap juice into the arm of a scary negro.
EB: Jesus crawled out of his cave and flew up into the sky! Hooray!!
LB: Are you on vicodin?
PB: Jesus flew into the sky, but just like Mein Brudder Arnold Schwarzenegger, he'll be back. And when he comes back, he'll smack the beanies right off of those Jews who killed him.
LB: I thought you said the Romans got killy with Jesus.
PB: I take it back. It was das Juden.
LB: This is so confusing. It's like Dancing With the Stars.
PB: Achtung!
LB: You remind me of my mother in law. She gets yelly too.
EB: Hippity-hoppity Happy Easter, everybody!
PB: Ja! Glückliches Ostern!
LB: Um, okay. Cigarette break.
EB: Yippee!